Waiting For Disaster
by KaliNiiro
Summary: AU. Eames, an assassin, wakes to finds a mysterious man, broken and bloodied, abandoned on his doorstep. A moment of compassion will take them both on a journey that may end up claiming both of their lives.
1. Chapter 1

A/Ns: AU prompt *can't remember where FFFFF-* that asked for Eames to be a hitman and Arthur to show up bruised or bloody and Eames to help him. This has since taken on a life of its own.

* * *

Eames wakes up to a thud against his flat's door, and he pulls his Glock from under his pillow before he has even discerned if that noise came from reality or left over from whatever he was dreaming.

He pauses his thoughts and just listens, not even breathing as he keeps perfectly still to listen for fucking anything to make a sound.

Something hits against his apartment door and he clambers out of bed as quickly and silently as possible. He pauses at the door, flicking off the safety, as he pauses again before stepping out into the darkened hall way. Raising his gun at any possible intruders. His mind stays clear of trying to jump ahead, and he focuses on making sure no one has gotten inside any of the other two bedrooms, and bathroom before going out into the living/dining area. It is sparse, there isn't anything for someone to hide behind, he didn't even own a couch.

But still he walks the room, head jerking to the sound of a definitive voice outside his door.

Focus, he tells himself. It could be a diversion. His eyes flicker over the room again, before moving to the kitchen that is separated by a half wall. It is empty.

Finally admitting that the flat is void of anyone, Eames moves to the door. He checks the peep hole, only making out a lower leg and foot sprawled out into hall.

The person sounds masculine as he says something again, plus judging by the pant leg, it is more than likely a man.

Eames cocks his gun, and watches as the leg doesn't even flinch. He continues to watch as he unbolts the door but if he is prepping to lean in and shoot Eames, he hasn't flinched his leg once.

Quickly, he unlocks and yanks the door open, Eames moves with the door, because it is bulletproof and he is definitely not.

No gunshot ring out, just the soft slump of a man landing on the door.

Eames peeks around the door, gun first, eyes rake over the man, and he winces. There was no way that that man was doing anything to anyone, except be unconscious, if not dead.

Granted, Eames still nudges him a bit, the man lets out a groan of pain, but doesn't move.

Stepping over him, Eames checks the hall, but it is empty as well. Brows furrowed together, Eames comes back to look at the man, lying mostly dead in his entrance way, bleeding onto his hardwood floor.

He kneels down, and picks up the man's head and grimaces at the damage done to his face. One eye is swollen shut, the other has a dark ring partially around it. The man's nose is broken and blood is clotting in each nostril. It goes well with the swollen busted lip and cut across his temple and it's pair cutting across his left eyebrow.

The right eye, being the one not swollen, flutters a bit as he seems to be trying to wake back up. It flickers slowly around then back to Eames' face, as if trying to remember what was going on. His arm shifts toward Eames, but it doesn't raise from the floor.

The eye is set on Eames, perhaps something to focus on. Eames wishes he couldn't read the fear, need, and hope in it. The man is pleading with him.

"I-" the man chokes out, in a gruff cough. He shakes under Eames' hands until slowly he slips unconscious.

For a moment, Eames studies the man's face, taking in the details of his bloodied state. A small part of his brain thinks to shoot the bloody sod, put him out of his misery as it were, but Eames can't find support for that course of action.

Sighing, he supposes there really was only one other course. Tucking his other arm under the man's legs, Eames lifts him as he stands. He kicks the door close, before taking him to one of the spare rooms, never seeing the small flash drive that falls from the injured man's pocket that gets knocked under the coffee table.

Setting the man on the bed, Eames returns to his room, taking up his cell. He presses #3 and then send.

The other side rings three times before a sleepy feminine voice picks up.

"'ello?"

"Ariadne, it's me. Can you grab your kit and come over? I need your help."

"Eames? It's-fuck-four oh two am. You said you didn't have a job this week," there is rustling as she shifts around in her bed.

He mentally swears, Ariadne did not do well in the early hours, and he tried to not have to wake her unnecessarily.

"It's not for me. It's for- for some bloke," Eames gestures with his gun in the direction of the man down the hall.

"I'm confused. You need me to come over with my medical kit for some 'bloke'?" she says bloke in a tone that makes Eames wonder what she is implying.

"Look, just do it, yeah? I'll explain when you get here," he huffs, wishing he'd just taken the damn man to a hospital, but they ask questions, and it is best if no one asks questions about him.

"Fine, I'll be there in a few," then she hangs up.

Eames tucks his gun in his waist band, before going to check that the stranger hadn't died and made the whole phone call pointless.

But he wasn't. He slept on, breathing through his mouth as there was no relief for his nose yet.

Eames waited, watching the stranger for twelve minutes, until he heard the flat door open. His hand went to his gun before he heard a tentative, "Eames?"

"In here," Eames calls out, not moving until Ariadne comes into the room. Her gaze went form him to the man on the bed, she flicked on the light making Eames wince.

"Shit, what the hell happened to him?" Ariadne asked.

"Don't know," Eames answered, grateful she didn't ask why he was sitting in the dark.

"He's not a-ya know-is he?" she asks, waving one hand as if that would convey her meaning.

"A what? A target? No, sweets, I wouldn't be bloody calling you if I was supposed to kill the bloke," Eames drawled.

Ariadne seemed to relax at this and started setting up. She shed her rumpled coat, and Eames got a good look at what she was wearing. This consisted of a oversized t-shirt with the periodic table on the back, tucked into some well worn jeans that were faded a bit at the knees with a pair of converses. Eames noted that he was still in his pajama bottoms, and should probably put on a shirt. He ignored this since she had seen him in less and instead asked, "How's Yusuf?"

"Cranky, his girlfriend got called out of bed at four am," she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

Eames moved his feet around. "Well at least you're getting paid," Eames said.

"You know I'm not here for the money," Ariadne said, but didn't push further than that. They had a standing arrangement for the last four years.

When Eames got tore up on a job, she would come and patch him up. They had met one night when she found him dying on the street, she had been a lowly surgical intern then, but when he pressed for no hospital, she had taken him home and patched him up.

Overtime, he had begun to rely more on her to keep him bandaged and found even paying someone to care for his wounds helped soothe the lonely ache that had been persistent throughout his life.

Ariadne, for all her smarts, had accepted the position as on call doctor, provided he gave her some advance warning to take off from the hospital in case he needed her. Then she had become a real surgeon, and didn't need his money to pay the rent. Of course by then, Eames had made sure she knew it was strictly a business arrangement, and Ariadne didn't push despite the few times she had slept over for a few days when he had been shot or otherwise seriously injured. She had stayed, once, even though she had to take emergency leave, and her coworkers hated it, and Yusuf definitely hated it, and Eames hated being shot, and took it out on her. She had been a saint, and got him through it. That had been over a year and a half ago.

Part of Eames had started to wonder when she would be leaving him. When being a doctor for an assassin would lose its excitement or when Yusuf would propose and she'd want kids and normal and everything Eames would never get close to. The ache in his chest burned.

"Help me strip him, Eames. I need to check for any type of puncture wounds," she had pulled off his shoes and had started undoing the man's trousers.

"Easy love, buy the bloke a damn drink first," Eames joked.

"Shut up, and get his clothes off before he bleeds to death on your guest bed," she sounded annoyed despite the curl of a smile on her lips. She handed him a pair of surgical scissors as she cut up the man's right trouser leg.

Eames did the same with his shirt as he opened it, he recoiled a bit. There were large dark bruises covering most of his ribcage area, but it wasn't the worst, there, low and towards his back, was a puncture wound.

"Ariadne," Eames says in a low voice. He glances at her as she looks up from studying a large gash on his leg.

She follows his gesture to the wound and promptly swears.

"Help me get him on his side," she says, grabbing pillows to help prop him up. It takes a moment, but as soon as the man is lifted up, they both can see the blood on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ariadne swears. She directs Eames to get her the lamp, the one missing the shade, and she digs around in her bag for her surgical kit.

Eames is then sent for the supply of rubbing alcohol she has there and a large bowl. It takes a few minutes to get everything she needs. And he shouldn't be surprised to see her pulling on a face mask, and making him don one, but Eames suddenly realizes how calm she is, and how many times she must do this. Both with proper equipment and here making do with what she has not gotten stored here.

After she starts, she lets out a sigh of relief as she says, "It's not that bad. Smaller puncture than I thought. He's lucky."

Eames looks up at the man's swollen broken face and wonders how close he was to being unlucky.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Ariadne has finished everything, the sun had long since risen and she had called out sick to work.

The man was given twelve stitches between puncture and leg and eyebrow. He had his nose set and taped, along with two broken ribs, not to mention the four bruised ribs and two finger splints on his left hand (middle and forefinger). Ariadne had given him two low doses of morphine over the night to keep him sedated.

After pulling off her gloves, she went into the second spare room and promptly fell asleep.

She had said very little, Eames guessed because she was so focused. And too be fair he hadn't said much either.

Eames cleaned up, and half an hour later, he checked on Ariadne before returning to the patient. Eames checked the apartment again, locking the door and double checking the windows.

It was nearly noon when he found himself sitting at the bed side of his mysterious guest now clad in his boxers and socks. Eames had binned most of the ruined suit, after saving what he found in the pockets: a cellphone, wallet, and keys. The jacket, mostly intact, though it was stained and had a hole from the knife wound.

He glanced at the wallet. It hadn't seemed important before, but curiosity was suddenly creeping up his spine. Taking it, Eames opened it and a blue post it dropped out. He picked it up, and looked it over. In loopy fancy handwriting said:

**Dinner on Friday.**

**Bring wine, love. 7pm.**

Eames flipped it over and on the back in scratchy handwriting was:

_January 12th 0228_

It seemed to be important, so Eames set it aside before looking back at the wallet. His attention drawn to the NY driver's license, with a picture of a handsome man name Arthur Rayne. Eames compared the picture to the man on the bed, and adjusting for the swollen of his features, he concluded that this was Arthur.

Eames mused how he looked like a bit of a prude in his picture, and wondered how a presumably nice man got this beat up. Frowning in thought, Eames opened the money section and found two hundred dollars and twenty-eight dollars. This wasn't a robbery then.

Looking over at the sleeping Arthur, Eames muttered, "what kind of trouble did you get in Arthur Rayne?"

There was no reply as Arthur slept on.

* * *

It was barely three in the afternoon when a soft creak in the floor boards, woke Eames. He sat up in his chair, hand going to his gun at his back.

"Eames, it's me," Ariadne said, coming in with two cups of coffee.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I came to see if the patient had woken, and bring you some coffee," she stated.

"Arthur, his name is Arthur," Eames said, accepting the cup of coffee.

"Arthur," she repeated, taking a sip from her cup.

"Thanks," he said, and blew on the hot contents before taking a sip.

Ariadne just nodded, setting down her own coffee as she checked Arthur over.

After working her way from his nose to the stitches on his leg.

"Well, he seems to be mending okay," she took her coffee up again.

Eames nodded.

"What do you think you'll do with him once he wakes?" Ariadne asks.

Shrugging, he tries to not look at

Ariadne's eyes widened and made a "huh" noise into her coffee.

"What?"

"Hmm? Oh, I just have never known you to not have a plan before," she says idly.

"It's not like I planned a bloke showing up at my door at four am," he countered.

"True," she agreed, but there was something in the way she was looking at him, as if she knew something he didn't.

"You leaving?" he asked, subtly

She sighed. "Yes, yes I am. He should be okay. I left some pain meds in the kitchen along with some antibiotics. Make sure he know to eat with them," she finished her coffee, as she grabbed her coat and bad.

"Oh," she turned, "try and feed him something besides take-out, okay? You should try it too."

"Cheeky," he said, narrowing his eyes. She grinned, and Eames stood, following her out.

Ariadne deposited her mug in the sink and pointed to the orange and clear bottles with pills in them.

"Orange for pain, clear for the antibiotics. Two antibiotics each day, then one of the pain meds every six to eight hours as he needs them. Stick with soup for at least today and tomorrow. If he has any kind of pain or abnormal sensations call me, I'll come back." She waited until he nodded before she headed for the door.

"I will swing back by in three days," she paused then added, "if he's still here, of course."

Eames made a noise of agreement before handing her an envelope with money in it. She frowned, but took it.

"I'll restock on supplies before I come back. I'm low on somethings."

Eames nodded, shifting from foot to foot. He disliked this part, when Ariadne left.

She seemed to notice his dislike of this and quickly pecked him on the cheek.

"Try to not over think things," she said, and patted his side as as she walked around him and into the entrance way.

"Soup, but not too much. I'll see you in three days."

"Lock up on your way out, yeah?" he asked back, after he heard her unlock the front door.

"Of course," she said, and then she was gone. He listened for the click swish of the door locking and released his grip on his gun when it passed.

Sipping his coffee, Eames finally asked himself the question he really needed to ask himself, 'What was he going to do with Arthur?'

* * *

Eames moved the meds into the bedroom and busied himself with scrubbing down the house of all the spare drops of blood. He wasn't sure when he'd get the answers to all the questions he had bouncing around in his head.

Six hours passed, before Eames got relief from the constant flow of questions in his mind.

It was his eighth time checking on Arthur, when the man suddenly shifted and began to wake up. He managed to blink, the swelling in his eye had gone down enough for this to be possible. He looked at Eames and frowned.

"'ospital?" Arthur asked, his body tense as he started to sit up. Eames sat down, resting his hand on the un-bruised shoulder.

"No," Eames said.

"Work for Fischer?" it's a tense question, he can see Arthur curling his hand into a fist. It reminded Eames of a kitten extending its claws.

"No, darling," Eames said, cursing himself for the endearment. It had slipped.

"Who are you?" Well that was a loaded question.

'A Good Samaritan?' Eames almost laughed at that thought.

"You showed up at my flat last night?" Eames picked up a flannel from the nightstand and wiped at Arthur's brow. "Do you remember?"

Arthur hesitated, "I was running. I tried to get in. Had to pick the lock."

Explained how he got into the building, Eames was the only resident, as he liked to keep the place looking abandoned to avoid attention. He kept it locked up at all times. Ariadne had the only other key.

"Appreciate that you didn't break any glass."

"Dead give away," Arthur said, then groaned as he tried to sit up.

"Hey, lie still you were stabbed," Eames did not like that sound coming from his lips.

"Gotta get out of here. They are going to be coming for me," Arthur pushed off Eames' hands.

"Arthur, please," Eames said, then instantly cursed himself. If this guy wanted to go, he should just let him go.

"How did uh," he wrapped his arm around his middle, "How did you know my name?" he sounded scared.

When Eames didn't immediately answer, Arthur scrambled to get up.

"Fuck!" Arthur swore, when his leg scraped against the bed. His gash hitting the side. He tried to stand, but Eames stood first, blocking the path.

"Easy, you have stitches," Eames reached out, but didn't dare touch him. "You're going to pull them out."

"How the hell do you know my name?" Arthur yelled, pushing Eames away.

"Your wallet, you daft idiot."

"My-" Arthur paused, "oh."

"I'm not going to hurt you, darling," Eames couldn't stop the pet name. "Though you're doing a good job of it yourself." He hisses when he spots a thin trail of blood going down the outside of Arthur's leg.

"Shit," Arthur grabs the flannel and wipes up the blood. He moves to keep the wound level and gently begins to peel back the gauze.

Eames moves forward. "Be careful, you'll-"

"I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Oh you're doing a bang up job so far," Eames snapped.

"Because I planned to be attacked last night, which is why I ended up with some lunatic instead of at a hospital!"

"This lunatic saved your bloody life!" Eames growled.

That seemed to bring up Arthur short, and he just glared at Eames, then looked at the wound.

"It is fine. No stitches came out, just pulled a little," he reported.

"I'll get you a fresh gauze, then you can take some antibiotics and a pain pill," Eames said, moving toward the bathroom.

"Thanks," Arthur says, "um."

"Eames," he says, not looking back.

"Eames," Arthur says, softly, "thank you."

"Sure thing, darling," Eames smirked.

"And stop calling me that."

Chuckling, Eames went to fetch the bandage.

It took only moments to get the new gauze in place, Eames fetched some water. When he came back, it seemed Arthur was starting to doze again. He was sitting against the headboard, his eyes at half-mast.

"What happened to my clothes?" Arthur asked, when Eames entered.

"Ruined, I'm afraid. I can find you something if you want," Eames offered.

"Please," Arthur shifted down a bit, as his eyelids drooped.

"Take the medicine first," Eames quickly getting the pills.

Arthur tossed them into his mouth, and didn't reach up when Eames held the glass of water to his lips. Arthur drank a bit down before Eames' lowered it.

"Easy, now."

"There are people after me, Mr. Eames, and given the chance," he let out a long yawn, "they'll probably kill you to get at me and..." he trailed off with the shake of his head. "They're gonna come for me."

"Then we will lead them on a merry chase, darling," Eames pulled up a sheet over Arthur's stomach.

Arthur simply nodded before slipping unconscious.


End file.
